VACANCY

sometimes I lie on the dirt
your dirt
with the tiny blades of grass scratching at my arms
tickling my nose
the bugs climbing my arms
wandering in my hair
the wind whispering at my ear
I dream that I've sunken
down to you
past the six feet of dirt
through the cement
through your wooden, silk lined cradle.
I dream of sleeping safely
within your arms.
you are long dead, but it comforts me still.
you are dead, but you are mine.
is it possible for the living to haunt the dead?
i sit upon your gravesone and feel like a ghost,
i listen to the breeze
groan with the trees
i'm always near at night.
i think perhaps your soul,
that tenacious ever charcoal thing
has vacated the premises
...so i haunt your grave in your absence.
sometimes as i sit under those cold, impartial stars,
that mysterious orb named Moon,
i imagine a great wolf attacking from the shadows.
could it be Anubis,
that dog-headed underworld god?
"GO AWAY," says the Wind,
or when the Wind's at play
does it rather mean, "STAY"?
you haunt my memory, my tumultously intangible dreams,
but who's the real ghost,
you or me?